


Blue Plate Special

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late nights in diners</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Plate Special

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) for beta work. Written for an unclaimed prompt from the [](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/profile)[**no_tags**](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/) challenge: Gabe/Ryland - late nights in diners

  
They’ve been off tour for two weeks now, which is long enough that they don’t hate each other anymore and all but the very best plots of murder, maiming and deliberate humiliation have been forgotten. It’s a ritual as much as anything they do before touring is – from making sure Ryland has fifty-two pairs of red socks and Gabe has seventeen pairs of green and twelve pairs of yellow, to pouring a decent bottle of vodka over the bus to give it that lived in feel. They all have their things, individually and as a group, but this one belongs to Gabe and Ryland.

The diner is like something out of a horror movie. No trucks are parked outside and the neon signs are flickering, only showing a couple of letters from whatever it is the place is named. They’re the only people there other than a waitress, a woman who looks like she’s seen better days and they were a long fucking time ago. She’s heavyset and looks sort of like Mikey Way’s SharPei. She’s wearing bright blue eye shadow and hot pink lipstick, half of it on her teeth, and an orange uniform that Ryland keeps saying was probably stolen off the body of whatever construction worker she killed. However she got it, they’ve both agreed she can’t actually be its intended wearer, since it’s easily three sizes too small, and that’s just in the bust.

The cook behind her is a small man who occasionally shouts for no reason at all, but Gabe’s not going to complain about the noise because his fries are crisp and golden and salty, just the way he likes them. Ryland’s eating breakfast under the delusion that it’s impossible to fuck up eggs, not quite realizing that it’s only _nearly_ impossible to fuck up eggs, but you can do it if you try really hard, and scary chef guy probably doesn’t even have to try, because whatever that shit is on Ryland’s plate, Gabe’s pretty sure it’s not eggs. Not that that stops Ryland from eating it, because they’ve been on tour for what seems like forever, so as long as it’s not hummus or vodka, it’s fair game.

They don’t talk while they eat other than to grunt a yes when they get offered more coffee, and it’s not until Ryland takes the last bite of his eggs, soaked in Tabasco sauce that Gabe finally makes a noise, a belch loud enough to make the napkins in the holder tremble. “You’re disgusting,” Ryland states matter-of-factly before belching as well.

“Takes one to know one.” Gabe drinks the last of his coffee and leans back. “I’ve got so much grease in me right now, I could slide home. You could fucking call the EPA on me, dude.”

“Gabe Saporta, oil spill.” Ryland sucks the rest of his soda through a straw, making slurping sounds as he gets down to the ice. “Shit. That was nasty.” He digs in his pocket and dumps a few bills and coins on the table. “You ready?”

This is the other part of the ritual, and it’s the reason Gabe suffers through the rest of it. He nods, putting his own money on the table and getting to his feet. The lights of the diner glow neon against the light blue of Ryland’s shirt as Gabe follows him out, around the back of the concrete building to the rows of semi-trucks, derelict and forgotten or just sleeping, giants waiting for someone to bring them to life.

He doesn’t know why the trucks are here, given that the diner is empty, but they always are, and it’s easy to push their way between them into the small alleys they create, shadows darker than the night around them.

This is never part of the tour either – for all that they joke and fuck around, they don’t _fuck around_ \- and so when Ryland touches Gabe’s neck, curving his long fingers around his throat and brushing his thumb over Gabe’s Adam’s apple, heat shivers through him, built up over months and months of knowing this was all at the end.

“Fuck,” Gabe whispers and swallows, feeling the pressure of Ryland’s touch. “Yes.” He waits, knowing what Ryland wants, what he needs, what it all takes. “Please.”

Ryland laughs, low and hot, his mouth covering Gabe’s, kissing him hard and pushing him back against the truck. Gabe groans and goes easily, hands sliding to Ryland’s hips to hold himself steady. Ryland laughs again and Gabe shivers, fingers curling against Ryland’s hips. “Taste like salt.”

“Do I?” Gabe grins and pushes Ryland back a little, never willing to give over control for too long. Ryland grins back, leaning against the truck behind him. “Shall we see what you taste like?”

“You’d better hope it’s not those eggs.”

Gabe makes a face as he sinks to his knees, feeling the rough surface of the parking lot through his black jeans. He undoes Ryland’s fly and tugs the denim away from his skin, easing it down over his hips and thighs. Ryland’s cock is hard against his boxer-briefs and Gabe traces the line of it with his finger, looking up to meet Ryland’s eyes, hidden behind his lashes.

“You do know what to do with that, right?”

“You’re in a world of hurt if I don’t,” Gabe informs him, tugging Ryland’s briefs down with one hand, curving the other around his cock. He huffs a laugh against Ryland’s skin before taking the slick head into his mouth.

Ryland groans and Gabe can hear his head hitting the side of the truck as his hips jut forward, thrusting into Gabe’s hands. Gabe tightens his grip and holds him, taking him deeper with every steady bob of his head. Ryland doesn’t make any sound, but his fingers find Gabe’s hair, raking through the too-long strands before fisting in them, tight and hard, tugging as he fights against the hold Gabe has on his hips.

Gabe takes him deeper, mouth tightening as he pulls back slowly, sucking firmly against the head, tongue pressing the curve of it against the roof of his mouth. Ryland groans out loud, head slamming back again as he comes. Gabe takes him deep again and Ryland’s hips and breath both hitch. “Fuck. Gabe. Shit. _God_.”

Pulling back, Gabe wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, breathing hard. “The comparison, as always, is incredibly apropos.”

“Fucker.” Ryland swats at him, but Gabe gets to his feet in one smooth motion that shouldn’t be possible after being on his knees for that long. Gabe’s got lots of practice, though, and not all of it blow job related. “I’ll drive us back.”

“Why do I have to wait until the next tour for you to get me off? Who came up with this idea?”

“You did.”

“Yeah, but that was when I was winning the bet all the time.”

Ryland grins and tosses the car keys in the air. “Next time you should think before you break an alliance with Victoria.”

“I hate you both,” Gabe informs him, sliding into the passenger seat and adjusting himself. “And I didn’t break an alliance with her.”

“You told Ross about the mole on her ass. I’m pretty sure that counts.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to _tell_ her I told him.”

“Actually,” Ryland smiles and starts the car, grinning widely. “I absolutely did.”  



End file.
